


And the Mystery Competitor is...

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Superwolf, samek, working out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds a CrossFit box in California and crushes every WoD, but someone keeps topping him in the rankings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Mystery Competitor is...

The hunt takes longer than usual, stashing Sam and Dean in the middle of California. It’s a step away from a ghost-town, almost literally; one motel, one grocery store, three bars, one porn theater. The weather’s nice, summer veering sharply into fall and Sam runs every morning in the beautiful golden light, the same boring route forwards and backwards until he can do it in his sleep. The first few nights, for lack of anything better to do, he drinks too much with Dean, wakes up sweaty and shitty, sandpaper mouth and pounding head and Dean convinces him to do it a few more times but that’s about all he can take.

There’s a gym a few towns over, Sam finds, going through some local directory while he’s researching there whereabouts of the old movie theatre that may or may not be connected to their case, and Sam ends up there that afternoon. It’s just an old warehouse hastily converted, mostly things for lifting weights, thank god, and a semi-competitive workout-of-the-day posted on a big chalk board. Sam quickly becomes addicted to it, watching his initials rise quickly until within a week, he’s in the top five every single day, if not the top three. There’s an all-time list too, and he gets to wondering if the ‘DH’ that beats him on an almost daily basis is the same ‘DH’ that tops the all-time list too.

“He comes in days, mostly,” the owner tells him, a nice but imposingly muscular woman, some kind of former gymnast, “He’s quiet, y’know, but he was asking who the hell ‘SW’ was, just last night.”

 “What did you say?”

She smirks, crosses her big arms across her small chest. “That you were quiet and came in nights. If you two showed up at the same time, I think we could sell tickets.”

That’s enough to get Sam interested; he’s got nothing else going on, so case work permitting, he drops in in the daytime two or three times, not particularly to see this ‘DH’ but to see how different things are in the gym. That’s totally it, he tells himself. It’s busier in the daytime, for one, with a lot more women than he expected, strong, no-nonsense women without time to check him out and  _that’s_  nice, being able to work out without feeling like a piece of meat.

Still no ‘DH’ though.

Sam almost doesn’t show the day after they wrap up the case because they were up until 4am running and burning and god knows what else, it dissolved into a muscle-aching blur after a while but Dean wants to stick around because they paid for the week in the shitty motel and damned if he’s losing his money (Sam tries to remind him it isn’t even  _his_  money but Dean calls him a big meatball and that’s that). It’s sweltering and no one wants to work out without proper air, no one but Sam and the owner and a few assorted others he hasn’t really seen before. And it’s a tough goddamn work out that day, five rounds for time with heavy lifting and crazy core work and halfway through the second round, Sam is almost sure the big swarthy guy toe to toe with him is the much sought after ‘DH’ but there’s no air in his lungs to ask.

They end up shirtless and pouring sweat, Sam’s muscles all lactic acid burn from the night before, hell, from the previous day’s work out still, but he can push through and it helps having someone matching his pace right beside him or across from him.  _Whoever_  he is, he’s damn good, a little shorter maybe but all chest and back and Sam is envious of his speed while they’re hanging on the mounted metal bars, rushing through their last set of toes-to-bars, even gets a second to admire his ass since the guy finishes first and goes right for the dumbbells on the ground, squating and slinging the forty pounders to his shoulders without missing a beat. Sam almost loses count watching the guy get obscenely low, watching his back and arms pop with effort, his ass fill out those pretty black shorts but soon enough Sam’s at ten and he hops down to join him, only two more sets until they’re finished.

Sam doesn’t win, finishes ten seconds behind and that’s how he  _knows_  this is indeed his main competition, leaning beside him against the wall with the jump rope still in his hand, breath visibly and audibly hard although Sam can barely hear it over his own heaving breath, over the blood rushing in his ears. The guy just slaps him on the chest and jerks his head towards the door, huffs out, “Walk it off?” and it isn’t any cooler outside but the fresh air is lovely just the same.

They don’t say anything, mostly because they can’t, just five minutes walking together around the back parking lot until Sam feels mostly normal, until he can at least drink water without wondering if he’s going to choke.

“So you’re ‘DH’, huh?” Sam asks while they’re still pacing side by side, barely glancing up.

“Derek,” the guy says, gruff and almost – but not quite – smiling when he continues, “Nice to beat you in person, finally.”

“Right?” Sam laughs, mostly breathless, just a grin. “I think all your records are safe, I can see why you’re always on top.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and gives Sam the once over while they’re still walking and Sam can fucking  _feel_  it, glad his face is already red when he glances back over; Derek’s eyes are blown crystal clear in the sunlight, all at odds with his darkness, stealing Sam’s breath away again.

“Not always.”

Oh  _god_.

They end up having lunch together; Sam asks, casually, non-committal, like his dick isn’t fully interested in his main competitor but he’s pretty sure Derek knows anyway, somehow. It’s a nice lunch, all protein and green and a quiet diner so they can talk, and they  _do_ , ceaselessly and seamlessly and of course there are things they’re leaving out, both of them, but that doesn’t matter, not really.

Sam’s car is small, not even stolen, just a tiny rental and with both of them in the front seat, it’s tight and steamy and at a stop light, Derek’s hand ends up on Sam’s thigh, shorts still damp from the work out, both of them still superheated and Sam stutters out, “I’m only here for a week.”

Derek gets closer, somehow, breathing against Sam’s ear. “You told me already. Week’s a long time. Take this left.”

Sam does, while Derek rubs against his neck, all scratchy stubble everywhere and there’s no way they can fuck in the car and why is Sam even  _thinking_  about that so soon? He expects Derek’s veering him towards an abandoned parking lot or some teenage make out point but it’s a beautiful park, deserted, but beautiful, all late afternoon sun and they keep bashing shoulders while they amble along the trail, all slow because their legs are  _shot_  but it’s worth it once Derek shows him the gazebo set in tall grass on a hill where they can see everything and no one can see them and it’s cool and shady and, well, not much bigger than the car but they can sit closer, legs jammed together and Derek’s big hand pawing Sam’s hair.

“A week,” Derek says again, sliding one arm around Sam’s waist, the other cupping at his cheek, thumbing at his mouth before he leans in even closer. “Week’s a  _real_  long time, Sam.”

And it must be, it must be  _ages_  because even the kiss seems slow motion, soft warm lips pressing the corner of Sam’s mouth before they even make it there, slow and gentle, quiet until Sam whines low and Derek laughs roughly and then he’s all tongue and hands, kitten-licking his way into Sam’s mouth and groping under his t-shirt.

Sam basks for a minute, learns the callouses of Derek’s fingers against his chest and his abs, learns the taste and texture of his tongue, before he growls and grabs and hauls Derek astride him, strips off his shirt and mashes them close together.

And if that afternoon spent in the gazebo together, panting and pawing and grabbing and grinding, if  _that_  feels like an eternity, a week must be akin to  _years_ , to decades, and suddenly Sam’s impromptu vacation takes on new life.


End file.
